Anybody Seen the Sky?
by vennumberten
Summary: America never thought that waking up next to England for the first time would be quite so nerve-wracking. USUKUS


Isn't it funny? He's never really gotten a good look at England's face before.

It's like how when you look at the ceiling in your shower. No one ever does. It's always been there, but you've never seen it, have you?

America sees England as he slips on his glasses. He's no model, for sure, but there's a certain subtle handsomeness to him. A lean, pale face, well defined, with a sharp, slightly crooked nose and a barely visible scar right under his jaw. The broken nose was a favor from France sometime during the 1400s; credit for the scar goes to either Spain or Germany, depending on the day.

America's hung-over grogginess, paired with England sleeping naked— _naked!_ — next to him is a mix that's making him feel giddily sick.

But mostly sick. He runs to the bathroom and thanks God that they're in _his_ house, because if it was England's massive, sprawling place, he'd probably get lost on the way and ruin a carpet.

When he's done spilling his guts, America brushes his teeth and hops into the shower for a quick freeze (no need to undress; England had done that for him). He does a half-assed job of toweling off and then opens the door a crack. England is still asleep.

Tiptoeing across the hardwood, dodging all the creaky spots, he steps inside his closet. Say what you will about America's masculinity, but walk-in closets are really awesome. He closes the door behind him, flips on the light, throws on jeans and a T-shirt, and pulls it off faster than he can gasp. _That _shirt was a gift from England. He doesn't wanna look like some sort of kiss-ass. Right?

It's not like he's _unhappy_ that they did this. Because he's not. Why should getting laid ever be a bad thing? Getting laid is great! The best!

But it's _England _sleeping out there, and their relationship just _needed_ to be morecomplicated.

What his heart is doing right now isn' ta good sign.

This is really making America nervous. What the fuck should he even wear? If this was a _normal_ one-night stand, he'd throw on boxers and be done with it. But what's the etiquette for when _England _is out there_? I'm not gonna throw on a tie just to make breakfast,_ he decides, so he clumsily struggles into a good T-shirt. Black, a little small, but that's kind of the point.

He turns off the light and opens the door with immense care.

England is gone, and the bedroom door is open. America's heart slams in a rhythm of panic. Is England the type to bail after sex? He's probably just, you know. Cooking breakfast?

_Oh shit, no. _America barrels barefoot out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by a low half-wall. England's back is to him; he's sitting at the table, not cooking, thank the Lord.

He's drinking coffee, the one thing he's good at making, besides tea. He's only drinking it because America's tea supply was purchased in 1903 and then never used.

England had gotten the newspaper for him. He's reading it right now, probably trying to fake relaxation, but America can still see how tight his shoulders are. Tighter than usual, that is.

America wants to clear his throat commandingly, but the only thing that comes out is "Uh."

England whips around, all the tension in his shoulders released like a bullet from a gun. He knocks his coffee mug over with an elbow. "Fuck," he says in way of greeting; thankfully, it was empty, and the only mess made is the shattered mug.

"I'm sorry!" he says over and over again, bending down to pick up the shards. "Jesus _fuck, _I just cut myself, I'm really sorry, I'll buy you a new one, _fucking Christ._" He stands back up, his hands full of useless chunks of porcelain, and he dumps them into the wastebasket under the sink.

England's not wearing a shirt, probably because he wasn't able to find his. He's only in the slacks he wore the night before; they're wrinkled as all hell and he's not wearing a belt, and the waistband is hanging off one hip, showing that wonderful little curve where his waist ends and his legs begin…

_I'm gonna die before this morning is over, _America decides._ I'm not sure if it's gonna be suicide or murder, but I'm gonna die_.

"I'm _really _sorry," England says again, pressing a paper towel to his bleeding hand.

"It's. It's. Yeah." _Look at his face. Look at his face! _"Okay," he says to England's exposed hip.

England hikes up his slacks. Damn him! But his face, oh, America can concentrate on his face again. It's a little bit dark with stubble, something America hasn't seen since he was a kid. Even in France in '44, England had shaved every morning. "Something has to stay normal, even in these ridiculous times," he'd grumble.

They're quiet for a while, staring at each other, America in the living room, England in the kitchen. The coffee is probably cooling in the pot, and America _really _wants some— if anyone knows a hangover cure, it's England— but if America walks any closer right now he just might grab on to him and only let go under pains of death.

It's England who speaks first. "We both remember what happened last night."

America purses his lips. "Yeah."

"How…" England clears his throat and blushes like it's 1870, scratching at his stubble. (America is getting dizzy.) "How drunk were you?"

Maybe all the Big Macs are finally getting to him, because America is pretty sure he's having heart palpitations. "Pretty drunk," he admits. "I mean, not blasted of my ass, you know? But. Not _sober._"

England nods, resting his elbows on the low wall and putting his face in his hands. "Same here." After a pause, he says, "I do _not _feel well," and, against all odds, he laughs.

America can't help but smile. "I've got a spare toothbrush, if you want it. And I can lend you my razor. I didn't even know you could grow a beard," he jokes. Even to him, it sounds weak.

England laughs anyway, probably just humoring him. "You should have seen me in the sixteenth century. I had a rather impressive mustache."

"I don't even wanna think about that."

England scoffs, trashes the bloody paper towel, and pushes past him, heading back into the bedroom. America listens before he follows; he hears the bathroom door open and the light switch being flicked on. England knows his way around pretty well already, for a guy who'd never even stepped foot in America's bedroom until last night, when they—

Okay. So there'd been a party. Everybody had been there, and it had been fun, a little end-of-summer thing that France likes to throw every year in August. So they all piled into a bar and everything went down like usual: France and Spain groped each other with abandon, Romano fumed about the groping, Germany sat in the corner looking vaguely embarrassed while Italy tried (in vain) to make him have fun. Turkey and Greece were either beating each other up or really _fiercely_ making out or both. Austria was trying to fight Prussia for kissing Hungary, but he was quickly decked by Prussia, who was then quickly decked by Hungary.

And then there were America, Canada, and England, all at the bar downing more than was good for them, and… Well, England couldn't even remember the name of his hotel, so they'd taken a cab to America's place. _It's just outside of LA, we'll be there in a jiffy, Canada will drive you to the airport tomorrow afternoon…_

And so they went back to America's place with the intention of sleeping: America in his bed, England on the couch. But then one of them thought of what a _hilarious _idea it would be to share the bed. That inevitably evolved, and soon enough they were kissing, and then they were _really _kissing, and then there was a severe lack of clothing on either of them, which then went on to them making a mess of the sheets in several new and exciting ways.

_England is the one who started it, _America thinks. He _kissed _me. That's not the way he'd always imagined it going down at all. And yeah, he's imagined it. With any luck, England has too, and this can all go smoothly…

America follows England; the bathroom door is open and his unexpected houseguest is shaving. _With my razor, _America thinks, and he's glad the bed (still horrendously, filthily unmade) is right there, because he's close to collapsing.

England favors him with a wan smile; America's chest is suddenly too small for his heart.

"You want breakfast?" he asks feebly.

"Sure," England says.

America nods, smiling, and hurries back to the kitchen.

They're ignoring the problem, but the truth is that America got fucked by England, and not in the taxes way this time.

He grabs a pan from the strainer and throws it on the stove. America wonders, as he cracks the eggs, who's going to breach the topic first. He'd _like_ to, but there's a lump in his throat the size of Manhattan and speaking would be a Herculean feat.

He's been staring into space for so long that the eggs are burnt beyond belief by time he realizes it. _I've become England, _he thinks, and he laughs because he's desperate to feel anything but dazed.

It occurs to him that he and England have never even been that different. Not even _then_.

America turns off the stove too forcefully and dumps the ruined eggs into the garbage disposal. He and England screwed and now he can't even think straight because _goddammit, _England is standing there, hair slightly damp, in _America's _clothes, after shaving with _America's _razor, bathing in _America's _shower, looking at him with a mix of affection and concern.

This is literally _too much._

"By the smell of things, breakfast is off," England says. "What time is it?"

"That's a good question." America glances at the wall clock. "11:57."

England nods.

They're just standing again, except now America's in the kitchen and England is in the living room. They fidget.

Stare.

Breathe.

"Do you want to talk about this?" they both say at the same time. They smile at the same time, too, timidly.

"We should," England says. "Shall we sit?" He motions to the couch.

"No," America says. He doesn't want to risk it.

England looks hurt. "Sure."

America glances at the clock again. It's noon, like it would be in a Clint Eastwood movies. _The standoff at high noon. _He laughs.

England looks at him, and they're quiet again. England's face is tense, taut; it's so, so weird to look at him in this new light, in America's own clothes, in America's own home. The shirt is a little too big on him, but, well. It looks good.

He doesn't want this to be the last time he sees England in his _Reservoir Dogs _shirt, standing freshly showered in his living room after a really good night of sex. _I'm hopeless, _he thinks.

England clears his throat. "Did this mean anything?"

Is that _hope _America hears? "Yes."

"But what?"

America thinks, and he thinks, but he doesn't have an answer.

"I don't regret it," says England.

"Me neither," America says.

England suddenly grins and says a little too loudly, "Even drunk, it wasn't so bad."

"It was the best," America blurts. _Goddammit! _He hadn't meant to tell the truth like that.

England's face is the shade of one of his Keep Calm posters. "Well, you know, ha, well. Yes. Ah." He clears his throat. "Good."

America laughs, and the horrible tension knot in his stomach begins to ease. Now, maybe he can articulate his feelings after this morning of attempted, awkward, post-fuckpocalypse domesticity.

England's face parts into a sly grin; he wore the same one last night, too, and it's rapidly becoming America's personal favorite. "You're blushing like a virgin, America. Which you are _not, _as I so conveniently discovered for myself…"

The way he says _America. _There are three things that have been consistent with England, for as long as America has been alive: his attitude, his eyebrows, and _America, _in those long, lean letters, the slight rumble in his voice filling in the vowels, rounding them out.

_Now or never, motherfucker, _he tells himself.

"England, I—"

But England cuts in. "I've wanted this forever, even when I didn't know or couldn't accept that I could ever want it," he says.

"You _fucker_." America could cry. Instead, he vaults over the low partition wall and runs forward.

England meets him in the middle.

It's a massive, painful, teeth-bashing crash of lips and tongues that makes their mouths sour with pain. Past grimaces and wonderful muffled sounds, they grip each other so tight that it _hurts. _England's got two fists clenched in America's hair; America's holding England's jaw, and something about it fits so well.

It's messy and sloppy and completely unromantic. They're both pretty sure that it's the best thing ever.

"We should do that more often," England breathes, pressing his lips against America's collarbone.

America can' say anything but "Okay." Nothing else will come to mind.

"We should keep this a secret," England says into America's jawline. "Clandestine. I don't want it to be a _thing, _you know?"

"Yeah," America agrees. "Yeah, we should _oh, Jesus Christ_."

"Someday, I'd like to learn every single inch of you." The next kiss is more gentle, a slow, agonizing brush of lips-against-lips.

America blinks and grins so hard that his face hurts. "Same to you. If you don't mind, I'll start now." He falls to his knees and makes quick work of England's fly.

"America," England breathes, laboring to even spit out the words. "You—" And then he gasps hugely.

America grins. He's about to continue, but England is staggering backwards, pulling frantically at his fly.

"What the fuck?" America looks up, still kneeling.

Oh, _fuck._

Canada is standing in the hallway leading from the foyer, grimacing in horror, the spare key that America gave him still clenched in his fist.

"UGH," he cries. "OH MY GOD. _Oh my God. _I'm sorry. Sorry. Jesus Christ. Fucking— _ew. _Okay." He throws a hand over his eyes. "Can I use your bathroom to wash out my brain?"

"Oh," England says hoarsely. "I had. I'd forgotten. About my flight."

"I can fucking _tell,_" Canada screams. He seems to be on the verge of a panic attack.

England turns to America. "So much for secrets."

America grins. "I think this was the best mistake we ever made."

"I hate you both," Canada says.

**.**

**..**

**.**

**A/N: Poor Canada.**

**This was written for a prompt made by mist-over-water on tumblr, who wanted a USUK/UKUS drunken one night stand, but with a twist: the awkward declarations of love come in the morning, failed attempts at domesticity abound. I pounced on this prompt like a starving dog to a T-bone, and it was such a joy to write. (I hope it doesn't disappoint!)**

**How do I love reviews? Let me count the ways. Good or bad, please leave feedback!**

**Please excuse any typos/glaring errors. The betaless road is a tough one to walk.**

**Thanks for reading, everyone. Reminder that my personal blog is vennumberten and my writing blog is vennumbereleven, both on tumblr. I'm also on AO3 (as vennumberten)!**

**~Miranda**

**P.S. The title comes from the song "Hump de Bump" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. "Hump de Bump" has absolutely nothing to do with this story and doesn't fit the tone of it at all. I was listening to it while writing and I liked the lyric, so I stole it and forced myself to write this postscript.**

**P.P.S. I hope that people got up and looked at their shower ceilings after reading this.**


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